by Robin Brande
Although I couldn't help wondering what Hominin Woman would have done in my place. Probably speared the guy through the heart with a sharp stick. Just saying.
I know there's some science behind this. I know there must be some perfect biological explanation for why, even when you don't really like a guy, it's almost impossible to be mean to him once you've kissed him.
So I guess I have a boyfriend now.
The data:
He walks with me to all my classes. He drapes his big swimmer arm over my shoulders and leans into me as we walk through the halls, and it's a good thing I have such a sturdy build or I'm sure my legs would collapse from the weight of him.
He eats lunch with me every other day. He sits there like we're a couple, like we're still double-dating with Amanda and Jordan, and he picks food out of my containers with his bare fingers, even though the look on my face should tell him I'm entirely grossed out by that.
But I don't say anything because the whole thing feels like this bizarre experiment or joke or dream or something. I don't even know how to act.
Mostly I just want to put my head down on the table and take a nap. For some reason being around that guy is like a sleeping pill. Amanda says it's because my hormones are on overload. She thinks it's my body's defense mechanism to keep me from throwing myself at guys.
I say it's because I am so clearly not meant for a relationship, my brain is signaling that to me by shutting down whenever Greg is around. It's gotten so bad I'm afraid it's going to affect my test scores.
Today's a perfect example. Greg plopped down next to me at lunch, started picking the pine nuts and cranberries off my wild rice, and meanwhile handed me five sheets of scribbled algebra.
"Hey, babe, would you mind looking at this?"
Amanda and I both mouthed, "Babe?"
It was so ridiculous--and he's so incredibly bad at math--I actually sat there and corrected his homework more as a mental exercise than anything else, just to make sure all my synapses were still firing.
If I'd lost my knowledge of algebra, then I'd know I was destined to be alone.
After lunch Greg walked me to Mr. Fizer's class. He's been doing that lately, and to tell the truth, it's the one time I don't mind him hanging on me the way he does. Because of course Matt sees us. He always has this look of utter disgust, like he can't believe some guy--some guy he actually knows--would even like me. Well, Matt, he does. Deal with it.
Greg deposited me at the door and went for the kiss. I turned my head to the side at the last minute so his lips landed on my cheek.
"See ya later, babe." And then Greg made the monumental mistake of slapping me on the behind.
Nobody touches the butt.
My whole body stiffened. My mouth got small and angry. And I saw Matt sitting inside the room, watching.
"Don't ever do that," I told Greg, my voice icier than I've ever heard it in my life.
He chuckled and slapped my butt again.
Big mistake. My arms are really strong.
35
You'd think after pushing a guy so hard he lost his footing and had to stumble backward three or four feet before catching himself, he'd take the hint and go bother some other girl. But not Greg.
"Cat, I'm so sorry." He intercepted me as I came out of Mr. Fizer's class and shoved a red rose in my face. "I'm such an idiot."
Only he didn't say "idiot." And what he did say was entirely accurate.
Matt passed behind us and mumbled something. I think it included my name.
"Go away," I told Greg. I started heading toward the doors.
Greg tried again with the rose. "Come on, Cat, please."
Where did he get the rose? Did he skip class to run out and get it? Or does he just keep a supply in his locker for times like these?
"Go away," I said again. Suddenly I wasn't sleepy at all.
Greg followed me outside.
"Don't you have swim practice?" I asked.
"I don't care about that. I care about you."
Again with the rose in my face. "I have to go."
But I couldn't lose the guy. I walked as fast as I could, but I was no match for someone with his long legs.
"I was just joking around," Greg said. "I had no idea you'd get so mad. I'm really sorry."
"What did you think I meant when I said don't ever do that again?"
"I thought we were just playing around--honest. C'mon, Cat, look at me."
I stopped and faced him. "What?"
Greg took a deep breath. "I really like you. Don't be mad at me. I'm sorry."
And right then all the fight went out of me. I mean, what was I supposed to say? Someone tells you he likes you, and you're just going to answer, "Too bad," and walk away?
The truth is, he's not that horrible of a guy. Yeah, he wouldn't be my first choice, but I'm never going to get my first choice anyway, so what does it matter? I should just get over that once and for all. Greg's a nice enough person. I really don't have a reason not to like him.
Plus there's that mysterious biological law: Can't be mean once you've kissed him.
So I knew I was going to forgive him. But I could still make it clear where we stood on the whole touching-body-parts thing.
"Remember I told you I've taken a vow of chastity. You understand what that means, right?"
"Yeah," he said. "You're very generous. I think that's cool."
I didn't quite get his answer, but I didn't want to prolong the conversation. I was suddenly feeling exposed, standing there on the street talking to a guy holding a wilted rose. I'm sure people were staring at us.
"You're going to be late for practice," I said. "I have to get to work."
"But we're okay?" Greg asked.
I sighed. "Yes."
Greg pulled me toward him and gave me the kind of kiss people have no business doing in public. That sleep thing washed over me. It would have felt good to lie down on the sidewalk and take a nap.
"I'll call you tonight," Greg said.
I shook some sense into my head. "No--I'm not supposed to use the phone. I'll just see you tomorrow."
"Man, your parents are crazy strict."
"Yeah." I haven't told him about my project yet and don't know if I ever will.
I was already almost to the hospital before my brain returned to its normal function. That's when it dawned on me what Greg had meant.
"I've taken a vow of chastity. You understand what that means, right?"
"Yeah. You're very generous. I think that's cool."
Um, that's charity, Greg, not chastity.
He is so not the right guy for me.
36
Day 58, Friday, October 17
Breakfast: None. Overslept. Again.
Technology avoided: Could have gotten a ride with my dad this morning, but ended up semi-jogging to school instead. Not a pretty sight.
I swear, Greg is playing havoc with my sleep. Just the thought of him is like having mono. Most mornings I can barely get out of bed. What's going on? I've never read about that in Cosmo or any of the other women's advice magazines Amanda gets.
Amanda is sticking with her hormone-overload theory. But since I don't actually feel any hormones kicking in around Greg--my lips still feel like wooden blocks every time he kisses them--I know that can't be it. I think I'm allergic to him or something.
At least I know my brain is still functioning--I've corrected his biology and algebra homework all week.
Greg walked me to Mr. Fizer's again today, but this time I didn't have an audience. Matt wasn't there. I saw him in English this morning, so I know he was at school, but I think I know what's going on.
Mr. Fizer told all of us a few weeks ago that as we head deeper into our projects, we might need to spend more time in the field doing experiments and observations. So he's willing to give a pass to anyone who wants more time out of class, rather than just sitting in there like I do conducting research on the Internet and using the computer to write up rep
orts.
Several students have already taken him up on his offer. I know Alyssa is working with one of the labs at the university, because I overheard her saying that to Mr. Fizer. And Farah is using one of the chemistry labs here at school to do her experiments--I saw her last week when I went to the bathroom. So now I guess Matt is out there in the world doing whatever he's doing to try to continue his reign of supremacy at the science fair.
Anyway. Whatever. Having Matt out of the room can only make my life easier. I don't need him scowling every time he sees me, or particularly every time he sees me with Greg.
If I have to get used to having a boyfriend, then so does everybody else.
37
Day 59, Saturday, October 18
Breakfast: Oatmeal with walnuts, cinnamon, and chopped dried dates. Half a grapefruit with honey drizzled over it. Quite gourmet, if I do say so myself.
Amanda and I were taking a break from homework this morning, helping ourselves to some corn bread I made last night, when she leaned against my kitchen counter and surveyed me up and down.
"Hey, do you want to know what the secret of life is?" she asked.
"Yes, as a matter of fact, I do."
"A good bra. And you ain't got one, sistah."
I crossed my arms over my chest. "Then don't look."
"Kind of hard not to, since they're hanging almost to your waist these days."
"They are not."
"Cat, I could fit about four boobs in your bra right now, it's so loose. Would you face the fact that you're getting skinny?"
"I'm not skinny."
Amanda rolled her eyes. "And blind."
It's true--I'm not skinny--but I am getting smaller. Still on the broad side around the hips and butt, but the waist is starting to actually look like a waist--curvy instead of just blocky--and my chest is definitely losing some of its heft. I've been wearing a 40DD bra the past few years (and even that's been a little tight at times), but Amanda's right--there is quite a bit more room in there these days.
"I think we need to visit my friend Joyce," Amanda said. "Let her tell you what to do with the girls."
"We have homework. And it's daytime--I'm not supposed to ride in the car."
"Cave people took Saturdays off," Amanda said. "Look it up."
The last time Amanda and I went bra-shopping together was in eighth grade. I needed one, she didn't. But she got one anyway, even though, as she pointed out today, she could have gotten by with two Band-Aids and a rubber band strung between them.
Joyce and I stood alone in the dressing room. She clicked her tongue. "Very bad."
"I heard." I lifted my breasts (still inside my bra) and let them drop. One of them sneaked out the bottom.
"Oh, very bad," Joyce said.
"Is there anything you can do?" Amanda called from outside the door--ultra-dramatically, like Joyce was my surgeon instead of a lingerie saleswoman.
"Oh, yes," Joyce said firmly. I could tell she takes her job very seriously.
I'm not too fond of showing my naked self to strangers, but Joyce was so clinical it was hard to feel uncomfortable. She measured me, clicked her tongue about fifty more times, brought in bra after bra for me to try on.
Finally we found one that fit. I mean FIT--like someone was just holding them in place for me, no strap pain, no chafe, no underwire cutting into my stomach.
"See?" Joyce said proudly. "38D."
"Wow," Amanda said from outside. "You still beat me by two cup sizes."
"It's not a competition," I pointed out.
"Yeah, but you still made my girls cry."
I bought two new bras--one in black, one beige. While I was at it, I thought I'd also ask Joyce for a sports bra. That little bit of jogging I had to do to get to school yesterday after I overslept showed me I probably need better support.
I explained the problem to Joyce, and she fitted me with this contraption that has about forty clasps all the way up the front.
"Nuclear bomb won't make them jiggle," Joyce claimed. Yowza.
Amanda decided I also needed some new underwear, which Joyce happily measured me for. I felt like she and I should get engaged after all that.
"Don't you feel better?" Amanda asked me as we left the mall. I wore one of my new bras out--Amanda made me turn over the old one to Joyce. "She'll give it to charity," Amanda assured me. "Some kid can use it as a swing."
On the way home, Amanda took the opportunity to quiz me about Greg. "Where are you going tonight?"
"I don't know. To eat somewhere."
"What are you wearing?"
"I don't know, pants and a shirt."
"Wow," Amanda deadpanned, "you sound so excited."
I hesitated, but then mustered up the courage to ask her what's been on my mind. "When you first met Jordan, you liked him right away, didn't you?"
"As you may recall," Amanda said, "I wrote four poems about him that night."
"Oh, yeah." They were really good, too--highly romantic, but also providing a vital factual record of his most important features, such as "eyes dark as an abyss" and "a nose sharp as the ridge of a mountain." She had a few things to say about his lips, too: "fleshy and warm and tasting of fig." (She was just guessing on that one, since they didn't actually kiss until the next day.)
I don't usually ask Amanda for a lot of details about her and Jordan--and she hasn't really shared any for a while--because we're all really comfortable hanging out together. And I think Amanda knows I'd have a hard time looking Jordan in the eye if I knew too much. It works much better for me if I can pretend we're all just platonic friends.
But this was different--I needed advice.
"Do you guys kiss ... a lot?"
"Yeah."
"Do you, like ... make out?"
Amanda snorted. "Uh, yeah."
"And you ... like that?"
"Kit Cat, I sense a problem here. Want to tell me?"
I slumped back in the seat. "I just don't feel anything when he kisses me."
"Still? Really?"
"But he's so nice to me all the time. He's always thanking me for helping him with his homework, and complimenting me, and giving me flowers and telling me how smart I am--I mean, don't you think I should feel something by now?"
"Jordan never brings me flowers," Amanda said. "And yet I will love him until the day I die."
"Is that true?" I'd never heard her put it so forcefully before.
Amanda shrugged. "It might be true. We'll have to see. But I do love him, and I do think he's incredibly hot. So if you're not feeling the heat--"
"I think there's something wrong with me," I said. "I think I should like him, you know?"
"Should?" Amanda said. "What's 'should'? You should eat your Brussels sprouts. You should wipe your feet. 'Should' doesn't go with liking someone--either you do or you don't."
I leaned my head back and closed my eyes. "We're supposed to be celebrating our two-week anniversary tonight."
"Uh, news for you, honey--two weeks is no anniversary."
"What should I tell him? I don't even want to go."
"Tell him you just got a new bra and it's shy around strangers."
38
He took me to Goony Golf and we sat up inside the giant Mondo Head in the dark and he kissed me, which I was prepared for, but then he made an unauthorized reach for the breast. Luckily I was wearing my new special sports bra with all the complicated hardware and about fifteen layers of fabric between me and the outside world, impervious to both nuclear weapons and unauthorized groping, and when I pushed Greg away and said, "What are you doing?" he answered, "Come on, babe, I love you," and--
WHAT??? This guy doesn't even know me. We've been going out for two weeks! He doesn't know the first thing about me. He doesn't know what there is to like about me, let alone love about me.
He doesn't know how well I can cook, or that I can play Beethoven's Fifth blindfolded (okay, just the first few lines), and that I named all my stuffed animals after elemen
ts on the periodic table, and I have a photographic memory for phone numbers and addresses and math and chemistry equations, and I learned how to drive in one weekend by taking my mother around to every errand she could think of, and my right pupil is slightly larger than my left, and I used to want to be a trapeze performer, mainly because of the costumes, and I was once in love with the same boy from the time I was eight until I was thirteen--
And mostly Greg doesn't know that I had been saving my first kiss for him. That other boy. Not for Greg. And now Greg's ruined that. Actually, Matt already ruined it. The whole thing is a mess.
But one thing's for sure: Matt McKinney used to know me better than anyone in my life, and he never loved me. So what's with some guy I barely know saying something like that?
I don't think it's normal to be this angry when someone tells you he loves you. I might just be seriously deranged.
39
"Just give him one more chance," Amanda argued.
"Why?"
"Because I hate to break it to you, but it's not unheard of for a guy to want to cop a feel. Especially in the Mondo Head--it's notorious."
"But he knows I don't want that! And what's with the whole love thing?"
Amanda ate another bite of zucchini muffin. She had come over for the Sunday report and also to sample whatever I'd made my family for breakfast.
"This is excellent, by the way," she said. "Okay, the love thing."
"He can't possibly really feel that way," I said.
"Why not? You're lovable."
"Right."
"Kit Cat, why is it so hard to believe that a guy could fall in love with you?"
"After two weeks?"
"After two minutes," Amanda said. "Remember me and Jordan."